


Metalchemy

by Quantum_Witch



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Allegory, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Dreamwalking, Explicit Language, First Meetings, Gen, Gore, Het, Languages and Linguistics, Magic, Music, Mysticism, Prophecy, Psychic Violence, Sexual Fantasy, Squick, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-08
Updated: 2008-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum_Witch/pseuds/Quantum_Witch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allegory and regular gory blend together in the dreams of a slightly younger Dethklok, as they seek out their pent-ultimate band member.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nigredo

**Author's Note:**

> Alchemists of the Renaissance attempted to transform common metal into gold or silver, or to create a substance that gave immortality. The three processes of alchemy are nigredo (burning out impurities), albedo (enlightening the spirits), and rubedo (unification of god and man). Today it is also used as a philosophy for personal improvement. Further notes follow each chapter.
> 
> Do not republish or distribute this story, in whole or in part, anywhere else without my permission.

Sitting in a smallish back room in a medium-sized tavern in Lillehammer, Norway, were the initial four members of what would soon become the biggest death metal band in history, Dethklok. Stuffed into the room with them were their instruments and equipment, none of which was especially impressive at the moment.

The fifth occupant of the smallish room was a smallish and exceedingly tidy manager/lawyer for the band, and he sat with a carefully crafted bland expression on his face. The argument had been going for five days now, which was three longer than they'd been in the city, and it saw no signs of winding down. The band frankly seemed to get hard-ons from fighting. Charles Offdensen wondered how much longer the fragile bonds holding them together would last.

"I's sorry," Skwisgaar Skwigelf rolled his eyes and clearly lied. "I stills don't gets why we needs another guitars player when I is the fastest guitarist alives anyway." The tall, thin, blond, attractive and arrogant man crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

"I've been telling you," vocalist and song-writer Nathan Explosion rumbled with exasperation that was approaching violence. He was very large and could have used the skinny Swede as a toothpick and looked like it was a favourable option. He was also, typically, struggling to explain things. "Havin' five guys is, it's like a pentagon—"

"_Gram_, Nate'n, a penta-_gram_," Pickles, the drummer and arguably the most logical band member, even when stinking drunk, corrected the big man.

"Yeah, gram. Thing. Ya see it over, all over these famous bands' albums and stuff. It's fuckin' just, it's _metal_, all right?"

Pickles tried to fill in the obvious blanks. "It's like th' Satanic symbol, th' upside-down star thing, all dark and brutal and scary and shit. He's tryin' to say havin' five guys'd fit with th' symbol, make _us_ look more dark and brutal. Y' see? It's symbolism."

"It's a symbolism, yeah," Nathan continued, "and then all the jack-offs who see us will think, 'Whoa! Those guys're already great metal musicians but they're more, they're _way_ more metal because they have five guys, like a pentagogram!' And then we'll get bigger concerts and more money and record deals and stuff."

"Waits. Whats does cymbals gots to do with guitars?"

"No, no, 'symbol-_ism'_," Pickles corrected again, "It's'n allegory. It's… Fer fuck's sake, never mind. That's a bigger word'n my brain can handle right now." Pickles slammed back his beer and ignored them all.

"Shee, if we act like Shatanishtsh, then people will schit themshelvesh in fear," William Murderface, morbid-minded bassist, spluttered through the large gap in his front teeth. "People like to be schared to death sho let'sh give 'em something to be schared about…" He dug the perpetual huge knife he carried into the padding of a chair.

Which would be added to the list of things Murderface had casually destroyed, and thus added to the tab of expenses. Ofdensen rolled his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, but kept silent.

Skwisgaar blew a raspberry and said, "Is still a dildos idea. Nihilism is way scariers than dem Satans guys. And who needs more dans one guitarist? I is metal enough for to be two guys anyways."

"Maybe, maybe not," Nathan muttered, glaring at the Swede, "but we're here, we came to Norway, we've spent a shitload of money to come here, and we're gonna find a guy before we leave. I hope. Besides, it'll only be a rhythm guitarist because, ya know, 'cause we already got everything else." He gave a canny smirk. "So, huh. No need to be jealous Skwisgaar."

"I's not _jealous_!" Skwisgaar countered with a pout that spoke volumes. "No ones wills ever be faster or better thans me! Buuut… Maybe insteads we gets tams-boring player. Dat would be metal."

Nathan glowered. "How the fuck is that metal?"

"It's gots dem little metal things what makes de twinkly sounds." Skwisgaar grinned maliciously. "Really big metal stuff dere."

Pickles snorted into his beer and Murderface chuckled softly, but both wisely kept their mouths shut.

"…You're a real dick, Skwigelf, you know that?"

Sighing, Offdensen rose to his feet and checked his watch. "Oookay. Boys. We have, once again, run out of time for the day. We've been here five hours and auditioned twenty-eight guitarists. Today, alone. The tavern will be opening for actual business in, ah, fifteen minutes. As before, they're letting us keep the equipment set up here through the night. So. You can all just go back to the hotel, have dinner or… whatever and, ah, be back here tomorrow at noon and we'll start again. One more day is all we have, but our advertisements are in all the clubs and music papers around town. Just because you haven't yet found anyone you think, ah, doesn't sound awful –"

"_Shucksh__assh_," Murderface interjected soggily. "They all shucked assh worsh than a shchoolgirl giving her firsht rimjob, _that'sh_ what I shaid."

"Ah. Yes. So you did."

"Ja, deys was alls little girlies who licks behindses like lollipop."

"Don't sound too bad when ya put it thet way," Pickles chuckled.

"Huh huh. Noes it _doesn't_..."

"But whatever, Offdensen's right," Pickles yawned. "We need ta get some food, get some more booze, get some sleep…"

"Maybe getsh a shchoolgirl. And a lollipop…"

"… An' come beck tomorra'. We get one more day, Nate'n. If we're_suppos'ta_ find a fifth guy, he'll show up."

"Yeah," Nathan grunted, not satisfied but definitely ready for food, booze, bed and maybe schoolgirls. "Tomorrow maybe…."

* * *

After many more hours of indulgence, the members of Dethklok eventually got some sleep. But none of them slept well.

They tossed and turned in their individual beds. And they all dreamed….

* * *

Nathan Explosion kicked off his covers, legs thrashing like a dog dreaming of running.

_And he was running. He stormed down a football field, not ducking or dodging but barreling straight through the bodies, knocking them aside like fleshy and bleeding bowling pins. He could hear the screams of the crowd, the squeals of cheerleaders, and saw the flashing of cameras in the corners of his eyes. He soaked up the adulation. _

_He was huffing out steaming breath into cold air, when he heard his militant father's voice over everything else. Telling him not to disappoint. Not to fail. But also not to dream beyond the little field he was on. It was all he would ever be good at…_

_Nathan stopped running and stuck his fingers in his ears and grunted loudly to drown out the voice, not saying a word, just as he'd done until kindergarten. He filled his head with images of guts and blood, and music that sounded like the instruments themselves were being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. He felt the noise inside drill outward through his skull until it spilled from his mouth into his hands like golden blood. The liquid gold covered his hands and arms, and flowed over his entire body. _

_He began to run again, leaving drops of gold behind him, which formed into music notes with every step. When he finally stopped, he was in a blackened and devastated area. The entire world seemed charred to a crisp. He stared at the ruined earth, the grey sky. He was the only bright thing left. His body and his words were gold. He was in his kingdom, ruling the dust. It ought to be depressing but he felt liberated. _

_He raised his powerful fists to the sky and roared like a lion. The sound resonated across the void land and shook the ground. Laughing with an odd joy, he felt the ground below his feet tingle. And when he looked down he saw a speck of metal glittering under the dust. He brushed that aside to find an entire road paved with gold. He followed it until he came to the crumbled remnants of a city, small enough to be crushed beneath his boots. He was not only golden, he was a giant. _

_The path went on through the ruined city.. As he walked along, his metal feet struck the metal road and sparks flew, making beautiful dark music. _

_In the distance, he saw flashes of light that he knew were actually sounds. The same music he made, coming toward him on different roads. He knew also that the sounds were people, others like himself. And when they were all together the music would explode and burn up what was left of the earth while at the same time bringing it to life, bringing forth a new era._

_Soon he came to the end of his golden road, but where it ended four other metallic paths began. They extended away at perfect angles from his own, and he realised it formed a pentagram. Damn it, he'd been right._

_As he waited, he looked down and saw the middle of the star had become a huge black hole falling down to the center of the earth, the center of the universe, the center of time and space itself. It was black and swirling with black music, sucking him in while also singing out through his throat. It was blacker than the blackest black, times infinity. And he felt perfect for the first time._

_Dust was stirring along the other roads, as the others made their way toward him. The fifth metal man was further away, but he knew…_

Nathan coughed violently as he awoke, as though his lungs were filled with ashes. He rolled over with a low groan like a wounded mammoth, and realised he'd fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand and had burnt a smoking hole in his pillow. Reacting quickly, he threw it to the floor and stamped on it with a bare foot. Cursing as he hobbled to the bathroom to put ice on his foot, he completely forgot his dream.

* * *

William Murderface lashed out at his bed covers as he dreamed.

_He was suffocating, perhaps buried alive. Even with his constant acclaimed desire to kill himself, he really didn't have smothering beneath the ground in mind. Being stabbed brutally with his own knife and his guts pulled out to be wound around a telephone pole would be preferable. A death like that would be metal. He clenched his fist and felt the knife in his hand even now, and used it to dig upward. As he hacked away at roots and stones, the knife made noises like a buzz-saw. The bowels of the earth gave way and soon he was breathing the air. _

_Which was fetid and rotting, like the stink of a thousand corpses stirred together with the shit of a thousand diarrhetic pigs. Pretty fucking rank. But he inhaled it like it was the finest perfume. He looked at the carnage around him, the bodies and bodily wastes, with hundreds of crows hopping abount, tearing out eyes and vital organs. _

_Ah, death. Nothing better than death. Unless it was death he was responsible for._

_And apparently he was. On a nearby hillside, carved in letters fifty feet high, were the words 'Murderface wuz here… and analihated all you dildo-lickers and then shit and pissed on you becuz you fucking desserved it, you doueshbags.' After carving it he must have passed out and somehow sunk below the bodies. Weird. Even weirder, he seemed to be reading the words at eye-level and they didn't look very big at all. He looked down and saw that the heaping mounds of the dead, feces and urine was growing smaller. Or rather he was growing taller. He'd always wanted to be taller. The crows flew around his head, squawking and encouraging him._

_He grinned his big gap-toothed grin, realising he now had a weenie the size of an elephant. Not an elephant's weenie. The entire fucking elephant. Life would be awesome with a huge package. He reached down to adjust it and felt it was quite hard. But so was his hand. Puzzled, he looked at the hand. It was a sort of bluish-white-grey colour. Actually it was metal, lead maybe. He opened his great maw and laughed loudly enough to rattle the stones of the hillside. He was a giant metal man. How metal was that? Very fucking metal. Can't get more metal than being metal._

_He then went stomping over the hill, his enormous boots crushing trees and tiny wildlife in his path. He felt super. Until he came to a busy metropolis and found himself suddenly face-to-face with a mirrored skyscraper. His own ugly mug glared death back at itself. Self-loathing sizzled inside him, and in his rage he punched his fist through the building. As he pulled it back, he saw tiny humans attempting to flee for their lives. Well, he was having none of that crap. He grabbed double handfuls of them, squeezing until they were crunchy red paste oozing between his fingers. Then he licked both hands clean. _

_The town below him was just begging to be covered in bodily waste. And his belly was roiling like Hell's blender anyway so it would be a monumental shit, a literal mudslide to bury the town. Laughing evilly, he dropped his cut-offs and was bending over, when he felt a painful lurch inside. He shat and puked and pissed at once, and what came out wasn't shit or puke or piss. It was molten metal. His entire inner self had liquefied and was flowing away. _

_Sudden fear gripped him, and he scrabbled madly on the ground trying to gather up his insides. It clung to his hands, quickly cooling and forming into something like twisted boxing gloves. He'd never be able to pull his pants back up now. But he felt strangely better with his guts entirely emptied out and lying in his hands to see clearly. It looked pitiful and dull and pock-marked. He felt a welling need to cry, something he'd never do in public…and there were still tiny humans alive down there who might see him, blistered to shreds as most of them were from hot liquid lead. So he sniffled and shuffled away toward the hillside again, pants around his ankles._

_He felt the tears start and they too were molten. Hot metal snot dripped and stuck to his hands along with the rest of the warped mess. But through the haze of scorching tears, he saw a sparkling line on the ground. It was a road of lead but it was polished and glowing. It seemed to be the only route away from the people, so he sniffed hard, sucking burning metal back into his sinuses, and stepped onto the road._

_In the distance now, he could see other giants. Three slowly moving toward a central point, a fourth floating down in the same direction. And as they moved they all emitted fantastic dark music. When he arrived, it would be five. Like the pentagram. Interesting._

_They were also much shinier than himself, but maybe they could help him shine too…_

Murderface awoke with a groan, grasping his stomach. Damn, that _smalahove_ was gonna be the death of him. It had seemed like the most brutal menu item he'd ever come across, but now it felt like the sheep's head was biting straight through his intestines. He spent the next six hours in the toilet, and the dream was washed away with every flush.

* * *

Pickles snored drunkenly, passed out more than asleep in his bed.

_In his dream he was also pretty drunk, which was a good thing. Because he felt a crushing weight on his back and the booze kind of numbed it. He tried to dislodge it by shaking, by reaching around and clawing at it, but he couldn't get a grip and it was clinging like an alien blood-sucking tick. He felt what energy he had begin to drain._

_Finally he found an open bottle of booze. There were dozens littering the ground around his feet, small surprise, but this one still had a little alcohol left inside. Resisting the urge to swallow it, he instead poured it down over his back and heard whatever was there snarl and finally release him. He also felt his skin burning and getting stiff. It spread to his arms and down to his hands. There was a sort of bluish-green crust creeping over them and he freaked out, trying to wipe it off on his pants. But his pants weren't pants anymore, they were metal. Wait, so were his arms. Everything but the crusty stuff was a shiny orangey-red metal. He was made of copper, for some reason, and the blue-green stuff must be that whatchacallit crap that happened to pennies and antique pots when they got handled to much or left in the rain. Had to be from the fucking blood-sucking thing on his back._

_This wouldn't do. He liked brutalness, but not when it meant his body was being messed up and he wasn't the one doing the messing. He turned to find the creature who'd done this to him and saw nothing around but a small mirror on the ground below. It was tiny but he managed to pick it up and squint one eye into it. It wasn't quite his own reflection there, but close enough for him to know it was his goddamned prick brother. Snarling, he flung the toy mirror to the ground and crushed it beneath his metal foot, which began turning greenish as well. Damn it, mere contact with that douchebag was corroding him. Fucking hell. Pickles never could measure up to the older parasite, who spent all this time trying to suck the life out of the younger brother because he didn't fucking have anything inside him worth a shit. Fucking lose-lose situation. Time to run._

_Pickles stormed in the opposite direction, cursing and crushing houses as he went. It was then he realised that he was in a toy-sized world. Or that he was a giant in a regular world. The latter sounded far better. He stomped a few more houses just for fun, then got bored. He wondered how many bottles of booze it would take now to get him drunk. It was already an astronomical number when the bottles and he were their proper sizes. Now what? Would he have to figure out how to home brew? Fuck that shit. It was a dream, so there had to be a vat of booze someplace._

_Scratching at his green arms, he also wanted to find a cure for his skin. Maybe booze itself would be the answer, as it was to so many other problems._

_After a length of time stumbling across the landscape, he spied a large crate with an XXX on the side. He knew it either contained some really freaking awesome porn or was the old-fashioned sign for liquor. Either way was pretty damn sweet. Cracking open the crate with one metallic hand, he found bottles big as water towers. He sighed like he'd found heaven in a box, then drank and drank and let the booze spill over his body. It stung his greenish skin, which seemed to gradually get brighter. _

_A glint of light on metal caught his eye. In the distance were other giants approaching a central location. Three were about as far away as himself, and there was a fourth flying along like mad to catch up. Hmm, five metal guys. Nathan was right. Cool. _

_He grinned and stood up, but wobbled and fell down again. When he got to his feet, he saw he'd uncovered a road made of copper like himself. Must be the way to go. But he also saw he'd dented his stomach pretty bad. Couldn't go to his destiny with a bunch of dings in his chassis._

_He heard a rattling inside his chest and wondered how to make it go away. Oh, well that was obvious. Puke it up. He swallowed the contents of the last bottle to lubricate the process and bent over to heave. The liquor-bile gushed out like a tidal wave, sweeping away the little toy houses and the people inside them. It kept coming until it flooded the world up to his shins. And finally out came the clanging thing from inside. _

_It was a hammer, pretty big one. How the hell had he gotten that inside him? Hey, yeah, hammers were used to beat out the dents in copper. What he needed to do was swallow it again but make it work at the same time. Pretty big fucking pill though. He'd need a drink to get it down. But he had no more full bottles. Shrugging, he used an empty to scoop up the puke-booze, popped the hammer in his mouth, and swallowed. He saw tiny humans caught in the bottle. Just like worms in tequila, he figured, so down they went into his metal guts. _

_Inside now he heard the people screaming and the hammer pounding. The beat was powerful, each drumming strike was sending sparks through his body and out through his eyes and nose and mouth. He laughed in delight and walked through the floods on the copper pathway. It felt electric under his feet, and the drumming inside made terrible, wonderful music, and it all was leading him to…_

Pickles awoke with a jerk and the taste of actual bile in his mouth. He rolled over in his hotel bed, vomiting on the floor. Gasping for air, he wiped his mouth on the pillow case, but he still grabbed the nearest bottle and swigged to wash out the taste. Then he curled up with the bottle like a teddy bear. The dream was long forgotten.

* * *

Skwisgaar Skwigelf twisted the sheets in his twitching hands and moaned softly.

_His fingers danced a tarantella and capoeria that mated and birthed a crowd-killer mosh. The guitar wailed and cried so beautifully under his hands. He and the instrument lived in a constant, orgasmic BDSM relationship, and he loved the battle. _

_Now his fingers flew so fast that the strings sparked, fire engulfed his hands, crawled across his shoulders and became wings. He was lifted, laughing and crying, into the sky. No one could catch him up. He flew above the entire world, faster than light, lighter than air. He came to an icy mountaintop and settled down, perched like a great bird. And his guitar trilled, a metallic bird singing its heart out. _

_The way his fingers moved was unconscious and instinctive, and for moment he wished they might stop. What a strange thought. Because if they ever did stop all of his hated memories might creep out. The part of his brain that his fingers controlled made enough noise to keep the other part mostly quiet, and this was good. Things he didn't like lurked in that other part, things with painted faces and scowling red mouths, and laughter, cruel and unfeeling. So his fingers flew along the strings to keep half his brain occupied._

_But now his fingers became entangled in the strings, metal vines pinching and biting into his flesh. He howled in fear as they burrowed into his skin, sliding up his veins and into his brain. His guitar had turned against him._

_Suddenly he felt no pain. He became still and stared at the sky, where he saw a tiny pinpoint of light. Not the sun, not a star. But it was coming closer. Lifting his hand to shade against the brightness, he noticed it wasn't quite his own hand anymore. The skin wasn't skin. It was metal. Silvery but not bright and polished. Confused, he touched his hand with his other hand and saw they were both metal. It must be the strings, eating away at his flesh from the inside. But he wasn't the same kind of metal, that much he could tell. He touched his chest and heard a hollow clang. His insides were empty. He sounded like a tin can. He didn't think he could fill it up._

_Coming down from the mountain, he saw that beneath his feet were thousands of women of every age and race and size, clamouring for his attention and his body. He towered over them, enormously tall. Much taller than a tree. Taller than a mountain. _

_The women weren't even that interesting to him. Hundreds were clinging to his metal feet and dozens had managed to crawl up his leg. As they crawled like insects over his crotch, he sighed and peeled away the fly of his trousers like foil. He was erect, as he often was, and most of the women crawled out onto the thick metal shaft. But it was icy cold from being on the mountaintop and their tongues stuck to him, and eventually they all froze and died. He flicked them away with his fingers. How boring they were. When his cock would not go down on its own, he pushed it and it creaked loudly as it bent. It should have disturbed him but it didn't. Doing up his trousers again, he signed. _

_He sighed and kicked his way through the remaining hordes of women. He saw that their bodies had covered a silvery metal pathway. It was wider than a guitar string, but when he touched it with his boot it began to throb and sing like one. He followed it, hoping to find something satisfying. _

_There came the glint of light again. He saw three other giants that seemed familiar, far in the distance. They walked toward one another, and toward him, music pulsing from them all. He kept moving but was more interested in watching the fourth one, the bright one that was silvery like himself. He played his guitar and the flying form echoed him. Over and over they sang to one another, and it made Skwisgaar happy and sad at once. Now it was coming closer, and he knew it would land soon and he would…_

Skwisgaar shuddered violently, nearly falling out of his hotel bed. He was_freezing_, even with blankets up to his chin. Even though there was a roaring fire in the hearth, and being born to the climate where he now slept, he could not get warm. He scrambled from the bed and did something he hadn't done since his teens. He put on clothing to sleep. The dream stuck in the corners of his mind, almost but not quite hidden.


	2. Albedo

The final day in Lillehammer was more of the same. And none of it good.

"_Goddamn_ it!" Murderface shouted as he stabbed his knife over and over into a table already scarred from the previous two days. "We've been shtuck in this shtinkin' town for _three __days_, eatin' fuckin' Norkwegshian shit that'sh tearin' up my gutsh. And we've lishtened to about sheven million guitarisht and haven't heard a shingle goddamned _good_ one yet…"

Skwisgaar cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.

"…Beshidesh_ this_ vain pusshy."

"Yeh, I gotta agree wit' Murderface," Pickles hiccupped, well into his fifteenth beer of the hour, "You'da thought we'da heard one that sounded good enuff. Man, I thought Scandinavians were _famous_ fer metal." He pointed unsteadily at the Swede.

Skwisgaar grunted. "Uh, we's _are_. Buts we not findings anyone here, so's it must being a sign from the gods we don't needs no more than one guitarist." He smiled smugly, confidently fingering his guitar.

"Or maybe the right one just hasn't shown up yet," Nathan grumbled, though he too was losing hope. "Really wanted a fifth guy, just seemed right…" He frowned with heavier thought than he usually managed. "Hey, I think I had some kinda, something, a dream last night about music. Something about music coming out of a hole in the ground and something being made out of gold… I don't remember it all. It was weird."

"Hey, I had a kinda weird dream too," Pickles said, "I think I was drinkin' outta some copper pot or somethin' and then pukin' up a flood, somethin' like thet…"

"Sounds like a normal day for you," Nathan chuckled. "Except for the copper pot thing."

"Yeh, guess so," Pickles shrugged and lifted his bottle again.

"I dreamed shomethin' too, but it wasth probably the schitty food that did it," Murderface muttered. "Becaushe all I remember ish taking a crap on a whole town. And it wash all _molten__ lead_. Hurt my assh… But it wash pretty cool." He looked more disturbed than impressed.

"Dat's is pretty gross, actually," Skwisgaar sneered. "I hads a dreams too. It was…" He frowned a bit because he was remembering far more of it than he'd have liked. "I dreamsed of flying and playings guitar and turning into…" his eyebrows twitched, and he decided to lie, "…the _guitar_ turning into tin, but stills sounded prettys good of course, and deres was women crawling alls over me…"

"Again, sounds like a normal day to me," Nathan rolled his eyes. "Except the tin guitar thing. That would make a sucky sound."

"Soundeds good in my dream, dat's all what matters," Skwisgaar huffed, turning back to the real guitar in his hands.

"Whoooa," Pickles said softly, where no one heard him except Offdensen, "we_ all_ dreamed about metal… thet's cool…"

Offdensen raised an eyebrow but knew the drummer was, thankfully, in the process of drowning the memory of that statement in booze. He spoke aloud. "Well, if we don't find a fifth man tonight, we will have to give up the search for now. If you'll recall, you do have a series of _engagements_ coming up, back in the States. Small gigs, yes, but it's _money_. Which you are quickly running out of. And this tavern will soon be open for regular business hours. We don't, ah, have use of this room for much longer."

"Someone's gonna come. I know it," Nathan muttered, a little doubtfully.

They all sat in stiff silence in the tavern backroom, waiting for the elusive someone. It was beginning to feel like that part was only a dream.

* * *

Toki Wartooth hugged himself tightly and dreamed of his own discomfort.

_His grey-skinned eerie parents, older than the earth and as feeling as stones, frowned down upon him. They were ancient icons, faces gaunt and artificial and crackled like aged paint. He shuddered under their piercing eyes, knowing a harsh judgment was coming. Skeletal arms in tattered shrouds rose and pointed away from their home in the hill, toward the city below. Their hollow voices droned a dirge, telling him that listening to the devil music played in the city, and attempting to hide his growing hair under the hat he wore while working on their nearly barren homestead, were sins beyond their tolerance. If he chose the path of evil then he must follow it to the end, and leave their pious home lest he taint them._

_Toki felt fear in the pit of his stomach stirring like he'd swallowed a live insect. He was young, not even a year out of school, had no money, no place to stay, no friends. And he also had no choice in the matter of leaving. He stumbled blindly through the snowy hills and down into the town below. He cried wrenching sobs, his tears falling like drops of silver, sitting hard and bright atop the snow. If only he could use them as coins…_

_Time blurred into an eon confusion. He saw himself eating what he could beg. He saw himself in a dark scrap yard finding a hollowed out car to sleep in. And he saw shadows creeping in every corner in every part of the city as he wandered around, knowing things watched him with hungry eyes. _

_But he also saw himself standing in the center of the dark dream city, hearing the death music that felt more alive than he did. The beautiful, dark and angry music that he'd come to love. He closed his eyes and felt it throb through his body like a violent heartbeat._

_His soul was a black metal butterfly trying to awaken, and the music reached into him, making it unfurl. He opened his eyes to see he'd risen above the clouds. The city lay far beneath him, glittering with snow. He had grown so giant he could have stomped the _

_buildings flat, and he didn't resist kicking a few over, laughing with brutal, childish glee._

_But he saw a stronger light in the distance, a black light, and he must follow it .He spread his new wings and floated on the cold winds until he had passed beyond even the hills of his childhood. It was farther than he'd ever been in his life. The world fell away but he was not afraid. _

_And he realised his own skin had grown white as the moon that shown down upon him. It was silver. It was metal. Instead of tarnishing his soul, the harsh black sounds had polished him to a gleam. Laughing with joy, he spun in the air and gradually came to land gently in a snowy meadow. When his giant feet hit the ground the snow blew away like smoky powder. And underneath it was a line of glowing silver to match his new skin. It sang as he walked along it, without hesitation, without question, knowing he was moving toward his destiny._

_Finally, in the distance he saw four moving shapes the same size as himself. Sparks of light shone from their skins, and music throbbed visibly in the air around them. He knew they were his metal kindred. Heart fluttering, he half-flew half-ran toward them. They were slowly converging at a point and he couldn't miss them, couldn't be late. Shivering, his stomach rumbling with excitement and a little fear, he wondered what would happen when…_

Toki awoke with a slight moan, as his stomach growled loudly. He was truly starving, having not eaten for a whole day.

The first part of his dream was harsh reality, and he gave a sighing sob when he opened his eyes and saw the inside of the trashed car he often slept in. Fifteen days now he had been on the streets of Lillehammer, having run from his parents. He had been as much kicked out as he had fled in fear of punishment for lying, hiding his longer hair, and for listening to vile music while at school (even _that_ he would have been denied if the government hadn't mandated it). True, he'd often fantasized about running away, but usually it involved being rich and living in a huge castle with countless servants. At the moment, he'd have settled for a hostel, and didn't even have money for that.

Now he rubbed his eyes and saw that he'd overslept and it was afternoon already. He snuck out of the scrap yard before the owner could see him. Glad he was wearing his warmest long wool coat and heaviest work boots, he trudged off through the slushy snow into the streets. There were a few places, restaurants and taverns, where a sympathetic employee sometimes took pity on him and snuck food out. But those individuals people weren't always at work. Sometimes he was lucky with American tourists. His broken English, delivered with such an engaging smile, along with his innocent big blue eyes and long honey-brown hair, and even with his face was getting a little scruffy from being unshaven, made him worth a few _kroner_ here and there. Toki, being utterly clueless about his appearance, just thought Americans were nice, and considered himself fortunate that school required learning some English.

Today he was lucky with food. And unlucky shortly thereafter. He'd managed to get a sandwich from one of the little restaurants. But he had barely finished eating it when a group of four rough-looking young men surrounded him. He gulped the last bite and looked fearfully from one leering face to another. This was not good.

"Oh look," said the obvious leader. "A little baby has wandered away from home."

"Should we send it back to mama?

"No fun."

"He's in our territory. _Liten gutt…"_

"_Slik en pen barn…"_

"Hm, yes _very_ pretty… What should we do with the baby?"

"Aw, we should be nice or we'll make it cry!"

"Little cry baby. We should… _spank_ it!"

"Yeah, spank it," grinned the leader. "Spank this baby good… make it cry all night..."

Toki wasn't sure if they meant what he thought they meant… but when he saw hands reaching out, he ducked under their arms and ran like the wind. He was stronger than he looked thanks to years of hard work at home, and wasn't above fighting when he had to – he'd done it at school when picked on – but he wasn't strong enough to handle four big boys who wanted to… do whatever they meant to do.

He ran like demons chased him, knowing that if he was in a very public area the gang chasing him wouldn't be so inclined to attack. He could hear them behind him, shouting and laughing, but not yet gaining on him.

The streets were less crowded than he'd hoped, and afforded little human cover or help. Panicking, he realised he might yet be caught. Then he saw one of the taverns where he'd occasionally gotten food when he had a few _kroners_, and lunged through the doors. There was a light shining in a back room and he fled in that direction. People must be there. He would be safe then.

Coming through the door, he saw the room was smaller than he'd thought and there was indeed a group of people already there. He yelped and tried to stop running but his damp boots skidded on the floor and he slammed into one of them. Hitting the large body was like hitting a slightly spongy wall. Toki grunted as the wind was totally knocked out of him, and fell to the floor. The big man barely swayed.

"Oooh, _dude_, ten points for entry. We should hire him jus' fer _that_," a seemingly good-natured American voice said.

Toki got to his feet, looking in wide-eyed confusion at the slightly scary occupants of the room and wondered if he should go back out and take his chances with the gang, whose voices he could hear now in the tavern.

There were five men in the room, and four of them worried Toki. The big man he'd run into had long black hair and an stare intense enough to scare away _Skoll_ and _Hati_ at once. The man who'd spoken first had red dreadlocks and goatee and pierced eyebrows, and was drinking and grinning woozily at him. A man with a face like it had been smashed inward by multiple fists (and possibly it had been) was fiddling with a knife as long as Toki's arm. Another man with long blond hair sat with a guitar across his lap, looking both bored and greatly annoyed, and was watching him with casual dislike. But it was the man in glasses and business suit, an alien amongst freaks, who finally gave Toki a pause for breath. He might not die today after all.

The big man looked down at him with a smile that seemed a bit unnatural on such a grim face. He put out a hand – with black-polished nails, no less – two times the size of Toki's and helped the younger man to his feet. "Whoa, guy. You might be a little late but you didn't need to run," came the deepest, most rumbling voice Toki had ever heard. It was like the man had spent a lifetime swallowing crushed glass.

Still rather breathless, Toki said, "I's late…?"

"No problem," said the tidy man in the suit. "We've only got another ten minutes before we need to clear out. But I suppose we have time for one last audition."

"…Odds-dishes?…" Toki cocked his head in confusion.

"Try-outs," the big man translated. "For the band."

"… _Band_…" Toki finally noticed the room was crowed with musical equipment. His heart throbbed in his chest. He didn't know these strange American musicians, most of whom looked as rough as, or rougher than, the gang he'd been fleeing, but he felt safe anyway.

"Ah, didn't's he even brings a guitars with him?" the blond snarled in Scandinavian-accented English. "Greats, I guess nows I got to gives him one of my guitars to be desdo-cratered with his dildos playings…"

"Just shut up and give him a guitar, Skwisgaar," Nathan growled, then turned back to Toki and tried smiling again. "Go on, play."

Taking the guitar shoved into his hands, Toki looked like he felt – bewildered and lost. But something deep inside was fluttering insistently. Slowly, he removed his thick coat then pulled the strap over his head and settled it on his shoulder. His left hand curled gently around the neck, and his right hand dropped down, brushing lightly over the strings.

A soft hum of music floated free… and he closed his eyes in rapture. The music filled him to the brim and then could not be contained. The butterfly flapped its silver metal wings, and his fingers flew over the guitar like they'd been flying forever.

He played madly for several minutes, blindly letting the music have its way. And when he stopped, he opened his eyes as though waking from a dream.

He saw the faces of the musicians, the approval and smiles. The big man came over and enthusiastically thumped him on the shoulder, saying he was perfect, just the one they were looking for. The redhead and the pug-faced man were saluting him with a bottle and a knife respectively, expressing in accents that baffled him words that sounded like agreement. The blond had stopped glaring and sat in shock.

In a matter of seconds, they'd all taken to their own instruments and were free-form playing, in a way that seemed like they had been together for years. Toki fit in like the missing piece of a puzzle.

Unseen by the others, Offdensen furrowed his brow. Being what he was – a manager, a lawyer, and very keenly observant – he'd watched far more than he'd listened. And what he'd seen was a young man being chased by thugs and running to hide in the tavern. He'd seen the confusion and fear on the boy's face. He'd watched as the band was overwhelmed by some kind of magical force that was clearly very real. And most interesting of all, he'd seen the faces of the thugs and the tavern employees and some early patrons of the tavern. They had all been just as overwhelmed. They were rapt. They'd had had an epiphany. And now, after the music stopped, they were slowly coming out of the trance and chattering excitedly to one another. _Every__ single __one_ of them, _including_ the boy's former enemies.

Eventually, as Offdensen expected it would happen, the tavern owner approached him and requested the band to play that evening. He nodded.

After getting the new boy to sign a bit of paperwork – he found himself only marginally surprised by the young age, and knew it would take some legal finagling to accomplish his aims – he sent them all back to the hotel and secured a room for the young man.

Toki seemed childishly delighted with the attention. He had a long-overdue bath, shaved all but twin bits of hair at the corners of his mouth (he thought it would look stylish when it was grown out) and put on clean clothes loaned to him by Pickles who was the closest in size. And he ate like a wolf in the dead of winter, with triple helpings of dessert. He was even more overjoyed when given a new guitar – though it was actually one of Skwisgaar's old guitars, which the Swede said was too dildos for him to play anymore anyway so why not give it to the charity case.

Offdensen arranged for them to use an empty warehouse for a quick rehearsal, just enough for their new member to get the hang of things. Skwisgaar, determined not to be outdone, instructed Toki on rhythm playing only, first demonstrating then watching as the boy copied him. Toki was also fascinated with the corpse paint they wore, and Pickles helped him to apply it to himself. They all knew he was fresh off the streets and had never been in a real band before, but this only fueled their own excitement over their discovery. They had a found a prodidegeny, as Nathan tried to say, and which no one attempted to correct.

They returned to a surprisingly packed tavern, played a dozen songs (it was all they had in their repertoire just yet), and before they'd finished, the state of things was clearly serious. People were virtually trampling one another to get into the tavern, they were screaming in multiple languages how much they loved the band, and the manic devotion in their eyes was unmistakably _the__ truth_.

Offdensen smiled stiffly, knowing the path before him. He tapped into private funds the band didn't even know he possessed, and spent an hour making calls. He hired as many bodyguards as he could find in the immediate area, secured a private jet and made flight plans, then arranged a safe house for them to stay in together while further details were hammered out. He could tell it was far bigger than any of the band members would even comprehend, and far too big for any of them to cope with without his aid.

After the crowds had been forced out of the club by the newly hired guards, the band retired to the bar and started drinking with a vengeance.

"Picklesh, have you _ever_ shtopped drinkin' long 'nuff ta have a hangover?" Murderface slurred.

"Once," Pickles snickered over drink number even-God-stopped-counting-years-ago. "What a hangover feels like… Do ya know what it feels like _bein'__ drunk_?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Have ya asked a _beer_ what that feels like?"

For a moment they all paused and their booze-addled brains puzzled that out – not very hard – and eventually caught the joke.

They laughed madly, falling around on the bar top, and then started babbling about how great everything was, how brilliant is was to find a fifth guy. But when Murderface starting insinuating that it was his idea and Nathan began threatening disembowelment with a swizzle stick, Skwisgaar sighed and excused himself.

The Swede went to the restroom to clean off his corpse paint and Toki followed, as the makeup was beginning to itch. He was gingerly wiping the black from around his eyes with astringent when he saw Skwisgaar staring at him in the mirror, studying his face carefully. Toki, still afraid, and hoping to find some common ground, ventured a question. "Er du Norsk også?"

The blond scoffed and sneered, "Dum _unge_. Jag er _Svensk_."

The two languages were close enough that Toki got the meaning. English would have to do. He scowled right back. "Well, you don'ts gots to be rude about it. I just asking."

"Ah, it nots matters anyway," Skwisgaar said more softly. "We's both betters than the rest of the band, just because we's Scandinavians."

Toki smiled, more relaxed, and finished with his face. He lifted up his long hair with both hands, tying it back so he could start on his neck. They both reached simultaneously for the cold cream jar, and their hands overlapped. Suddenly the Swede grabbed both of Toki's hands and turned them over, eyes roaming over them in disbelief.

"_What's de hells is dis_?" he gasped, "You's gots smooth little _baby_ fingers, no grooves on dem!" The boy's hands were obviously used to work, but the fingertips were missing the clear indentations of a seasoned guitarist. Skwisgaar rubbed his own calloused fingertips over Toki's, studying them with bewildered expression.

The boy paled in fear and pulled his hands away quickly. Skwisgaar stared at him with something like fear himself, and then whispered, "You's _nevers_ played a guitar until now. Hows in the name of Odin does you _plays_ like that?"

Toki shivered, eyes wide. "I… I really don'ts know, I _don'ts_. It just _happened_. It's likes… something else made me do it. I _swear_… Don'ts hit me…"

"I wasn't goings to…" Skwisgaar took a deep and shuddery breath. He looked into eyes even bluer than his own and saw the truth. The kid was a natural guitarist in some supernatural way, damned near as good as he was, nearly as fast. It pained him, but he also felt strangely protective toward the boy. They'd both clearly been mistreated, and this one probably far more recently.

"Oookay…," Skwisgaar said carefully, "Okay, so it was like magics or inskinks or something. But… you… needs lessons maybe? Just to be sures you can keep going? So I teaches you, for real, whens we get back to Uniteds State. What say you, my little friend?"

Toki's eyes sparkled like silver. Not only was he going to another country, but he would be taken under the wing of this amazing musician (and later come to regret thinking that to be a good thing). He yelped in agreement and in a fit of joy, flung his arms wide and embraced the tall man, nearly breaking ribs.

Skwisgaar stood for a moment, stunned but oddly pleased, then patted Toki on the back gently. But when it was clear Toki wouldn't release him, he struggled away, blushing and flustered, with the excuse that he needed to finish removing his own makeup. After that, he dragged the kid back out into the bar.

Neither noticed they had been followed and watched closely all the time by Offdensen. He had seen and overheard everything. And knew for certain how unique this situation was, and how dangerous things were swiftly going to become. But he was prepared. He would take care of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Toki is silver because it is nearly pure and easily used for electricity. It's symbolised by the moon. I only used the butterfly as a personal metaphor for him. His age is meant to be between 17 and 18. And if Toki seems smaller than he should when compared to other band members, keep in mind that men keep growing until they're about 20-21.  
> \- The entire sequence of the trashed car, Toki being chased and threatened, then playing guitar like a natural came directly from a dream I had at the time I drew the first comic about Toki. From that dream, this whole story grew.  
> \- The Norwegian and Swedish phrases are likely not grammatically correct. I use an online translator program, InterTran, for most languages. Yeah, I cheat.- Skoll and Hati are two Norwegian wolf demons who help bring about Ragnarok. The first eats the sun, the second eats the moon. Their father is Fenrir, and in tales he is often given the same tasks.  
> \- The drinking joke by Pickles is borrowed liberally from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, something Ford Prefect tells Arthur Dent. Look it up.


	3. Epilogue: Rubedo

Offdensen dreamed, lying quite still and calm in his bed.

_He stood on a blackened plain, watching the five metal giants… lumbering, shuffling, weaving, striding, flying… toward one another along a pentagram pattern. Copper, lead, gold, tin, silver. When they reached each other, there was a blinding flash of power that could be called nothing less than alchemical. And when the light receded, he saw the giants fused together at the hands, a pure energy pulsing constantly amongst them, fluctuating between whitest white and blackest blackness and blood-flame red . Music pounded from their forms, shaking the world._

_And the world bowed before them, basking in the terrifying, hypnotic, dark glow. The common masses screamed in worship. The guardians stood masked and well-armed. And both groups declared their willingness to sacrifice themselves without hesitation upon the altar of their new gods._

_Offdensen looked around the edges of the plain, where shadows moved, red eyes watching the five giants, not bowing down but instead plotting how to use them to their own ends. Or how to bring about their end. The world would suffer no matter what happened, he knew this. It had a small chance of surviving under the rule of the metal kings, whereas the shadows wouldn't be so merciful._

_He had a great decision to make. Stay with the giants, or leave them to the clutches of the shadows. _

_In the middle of those shadows was a slithering circle, an ouroboros of mercury, liquid and deadly._

_He looked back to the giants. He knew them well after nearly a year, knew they were flawed and damaged, ignorant, self-centered, and in some ways even naïve. But it wasn't entirely malicious, and it had begun to change. Now there was a strange innocence and new life and purpose inside the band, and it was… bizarrely sacred. _

_No, he would stay here. His choice had become clear and sharp._

_He looked at his own body now, and saw he too had become a giant. An iron dragon, who would protect with fierceness and destroy those seeking to tear down the metal gods soon to rule the world… _

Offdensen awoke with a heavy sigh, remembering every bit of the dream. He sat up, picked up the bedside phone and dialed a very private number.

"Yes, it's Charles Offdensen… You can tell Mr. Selecia that the… prophecy is true. They have found the fifth one. They have arisen, and I intend to keep their path clear to the end. Tell him that I am no longer the Tribunal's spy, I have defected. I belong to Dethklok now."

He replaced the phone, then lay back down, secure in the knowledge that he had found his own destiny. He was metal too, far more than the band would ever know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The eternal symbol of the ouroboros, as well as deadly untouchable mercury is Selecia,* of course. It is another metal used in alchemy.  
> \- Offdensen is iron which is another achemical metal, and the dragon is often used at its symbol.  
> \- Hm. Betcha didn't see that coming. But one has to wonder how he seemed to know as much as he did about what was going to happen
> 
> *(canon spelling, according to Brendon himself)

**Author's Note:**

> \- In alchemy, the primary metals used were lead, iron, tin, copper, gold, silver, and mercury. Each responded to either the sun, the moon, or one of five planets thought to exist in the 16th century (not counting earth).  
> \- Nathan is gold because, even though he's far from pure, he is the leader. The lion is a symbolic animal for the metal.  
> \- Murderface is lead because of its depressive and even poisonous properties, and he badly needs to be purified. Crows are a symbol for the metal as well as the process of alchemy where lead is used.  
> \- Smalahove is boiled sheep's head, eyes, teeth and all included. You apparently are meant to eat the whole face, and the cheek area is especially tender. I'm vomiting as I write.  
> \- Pickles is copper, which is conductive and malleable, and he is rather a peacekeeper in his way. The mirror is one of the symbols of copper as it was highly polished and used for that purpose in ancient times. The verdigris corrosion would actually take salt and vinegar or scrubbing with chalk, to remove it, but booze worked for the dream.  
> \- Skwisgaar is tin because it is really the most fragile metal of the group. The loud creak when he bends his penis down is called the "tin cry", and is caused by breaking crystallisation inside the tin. Though not mentioned clearly, one of the processes of alchemy is symbolised by a peacock, another is the phoenix. He has a touch of both in his dream.  
> \- A tarantella is a violent and sexualised dance. The capoeria is a dance filled with sparring, kicking, and even headbutts. A Crowd-Killer is wild and done with no regard for the health and safety of those around you (in other words, what Toki does in the "Christian moshpit; his style may be "lawnmower" but don't quote me).


End file.
